


A Sky Full of Stars

by inkbender



Category: Super Smash Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, F/F, F/M, Grimdark, M/M, Memory Loss, mindless fighting, they just want to go home
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 21:36:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5601964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkbender/pseuds/inkbender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is it too much to wish for?” She traces her finger across the empty sky and imagines that somewhere out there, she and her companions have loved ones awaiting their return. “For my memories. For a home.” </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Silver moonlight twinkles down the edge of cold steel, riddled as it is with the scratches and dents of too many encounters and not enough upkeep. He thinks he sees crimson death flecked within its deeper grooves, but it could just be the low light playing tricks on him. He grunts as the blade bites through skin, drenching his torso in fresh crimson; however, the minor sacrifice brings him greater gains as he is now within his opponent’s inner guard while her weapon is still stuck in his shoulder. Her exquisite blue eyes widen in shock, that peculiar mark of her ancestors glowing in her left iris, as he brings his sword up and into—

...

—the descent of an electronic boot, forcefully brought down as his challenger axe-kicks him. The attack generates an explosion at impact site that knocks him teen feet vertically into the air. He winds his body about, reorienting himself just in time to twist out of another rocket-powered, backflipping kick. The woman twirls effortlessly in place, twenty-four inches of blonde hair whipping about her torso as she converts the momentum of her flip into a double-jet roundhouse. He can’t wiggle his way out from the second kick, having already used his dodging power to avoid the first blow. He almost wishes he’d taken the first hit, because the blow smashes him so hard into the ground that he—

...

—bounces before stumbling right back to his feet. There’s no time to rest; his foe is already barreling through him at inhuman speeds, the edges of its furry figure practically melting into the atmosphere. The sheer velocity of its flash step juggles him straight back into the sky again—but this time, armed with the knowledge that an aerial follow-up is more than likely, he swings his sword in a tight arc about his entire torso. His prediction is rewarded when the Master Sword shreds through clothing and fur and flesh alike. With his animalistic challenger caught up in his spinning attack, he lands as many cuts as possible before spiking the creature into the ground. He’s struck by a moment of déjà vu when the fox struggles to its feet—a memory of another lifetime, maybe—but it doesn’t matter in the middle of this fight. Someday, he’ll have all the time in the world to reflect on his experiences; right now, he can only—

...

—drop into a roll as fireballs erupt around him. Upon impact with any solid surface, a pillar of flame explodes skyward, a flaming forest that is felled only with a quick whirling spin attack. He slides out of his spin just as swiftly, unwilling to stay in one place too long. His caution is well-warranted as a beam of pure electricity crackles through the space his torso had occupied not a second ago. Every hair on the back of his neck rises at the sight of his enemy before him—the true villain who’d pulled him from Hyrule and into an unfamiliar universe to fight alongside and against other warriors. Why should they have to brawl with each other when their only reason stands before him now?

There is no tome, no incantation, and no blazing energy that travels towards him; purple runes that spring into existence around his foe are the only warning he gets before an inferno of dark purple flames explode from the ground at his feet. His vision goes white with excruciating pain as he crumples to his knees, unable to do anything more than cling to his life force even as it flees his body and seeps into the fell demon’s. Crimson splatters across green; black seeps into his peripherals. For as long as he can remember, he’s always been a fighter. Born to brawl yet always knowing that it’d come to an end. But now, in his final moment, he wishes he could have—

...

Link opens his eyes to darkness.

Seconds later, a single shaft of moonlight penetrates through the cloudy night and trickles in through the opening of their small cavern. His undershirt shift uncomfortably against his clammy skin as he sits up, drenched in a cold sweat, but already he can’t remember just what exactly had caused his dream-self such distress. The real world is much easier to grasp. His sword and shield rests atop his usual green hood folded at his feet. Robin’s hair gleams silver in the soft light a few yards away, a tome hugged tight to his chest. Propped up against the cavern to his left lies Palutena, her dress recently stripped of its golden accessories to aid in ease of travel.

Sometimes he wonders just who the emerald-haired woman had been in her world, weighed down by so many wealthy ornaments, before she’d been warped into this alternate universe. Who any of his opponents—that blue-haired girl, the scantily-clad blonde with those killer heels, and the anthropomorphic canine who _had_ to share some relation to Fox—were in their worlds. And probably most importantly, who was he? And who is he now? And what will he do with himself?

This really isn’t something his mind can contemplate now. With haunting glimpses of nightmare still flashing through his mind, Link rolls out of his resting spot and arms himself quickly. Traces of adrenaline seep through his veins at times; he’s almost itching for a fight and decides to check up on the night guard.

With his sword embedded firmly into the packed dirt, Marth is doing remarkably well at sleeping on his feet. The moment Link shuffles close, however, the warrior yanks his blade up in arms so quickly that Link reflexively guards with the Master Sword.

Half a second later, Marth sheepishly lowers the Falchion. “Have you come to replace me?”

“Maybe.” He frowns. “Dreams won’t let me sleep.”

“Memories?”

“Not this time.” He came from somewhere once. He was someone to somebody, but for the life of him he cannot remember, not in this fractured world full of beings with shattered minds. A dozen blank slates they all are, with little purpose to exist aside from the desire to fight, to conquer, to regain broken shards of memory that were lost long ago. “Do… Do you ever wonder…?”

“Yes. All the time. How can I desire so strongly to return home when I’ve not an inkling of where home is?” Marth raises his eyes to a night sky devoid of stars. This world is completely isolated from all else—and so are the warriors trapped upon it as well. “We can only trust that, when the fighting is finally over, our Lady Rosalina will guide us there.”

Link can’t help the doubt that sinks deep into his gut at Marth’s hopeful words. “Yeah. I guess.”

* * *

_“So you’re awake. What kind of dream was it?”_

_“In all honesty, it was over in a moment; but in that instant of time and space, we found perfect balance, she and I. Together, we… we ruled the galaxies.”_

_“Laughable. There are no stars here.”_

_“You need not remind me. Yet strangely, the vision remains a warm one. Her smile, the people’s praises… why must sleep be crueler than reality?”_

* * *

It is with a shudder that Lucina resurfaces within the waking world.

She remembers green: a teenage boy her age with pointed ears and slanted eyes and a sword that slid past her guard and slotted itself between her ribs. She coughed up copper and countered his emerald with a spray of warm crimson before fading into darkness. A memory?

No. Just a dream. She’s still alive, isn’t she?

Shakily, she drives her blade into the ground to leverage herself to her feet. The _shink_ of steel biting into earth is just enough to startle Pit without waking him; his black wings stretch, momentarily prepared for flight, before they resettle into place behind his shoulder blades. Sheik on the other hand awakens immediately, assesses the situation, and drops right back into a light doze within the blink of an eye.

With phantom pain lingering within her chest, Lucina sheathes the Falchion—her Falchion, her only link to a forgotten past—and wanders in search for the nearest source of sky. Soft moonlight sifts through the spiderwebbing cracks of the dilapidated ruins they’d taken shelter within, illuminating her path from room to hallway to atrium. There, visible through the shattered glass ceiling, is a starless sky.

“Still searching?”

Ike emerges from shadows across the hall, his gaze trained upon the empty night. They share recollections of the same constellations, even when none exist here. In a world where she owns so very little, even the simplest of commonalities is enough to put her trust in him.

“Is it too much to wish for?” She traces her finger across the void and imagines that somewhere out there, she and Ike, Pit, and Sheik have loved ones to return to. “For my memories. For a home.”

“Can’t say much about the lost memories, though I don’t see the point in wishing on non-existent stars.” Silverlight is reflected off Ragnell’s blade as gold. “We already have that oversized turtle’s promise. Isn’t that enough?”

Her stomach twists at the disrespectful mention of King Bowser. “And you trust him?”

Ike crosses his arms and won’t meet her eyes. “I trust Cloud.”

* * *

Several hours later, eight warriors will brawl on a forsaken arena. They will fight because an unseen force compels them to. They’ll fight with nothing to them but their name and the muscle memory trained into their bodies through years of battle experience. They will fight for dreams they no longer possess in the desperate hope that some greater power will grant them their wish.

When one fighter crumples to their knees and draws their last breath, that divine being will smile.

Just another day in the Super Smash Tournament.


	2. Chapter 2

_You are no pawn, Robin. You’re my tactician. Remember that._

He remembers. What he remembers terrifies him.

By all reasoning, Robin shouldn’t remember anything. A warrior who has been present on the battlefield since the Brawl first began will have inevitably retrieved more memories about their forgotten origins than one who’s just been summoned. According to his first traveling companion, a boy who’d equipped nothing but an energy sword and a pair of boxer briefs, Robin had literally teleported into this world via violaceous whirlwind four days ago, so vivid dreams about two powerful beings holding conversation at the dead center of a spiraling galaxy are highly atypical.

_What could an evanescent human ever hope to offer an eternal being?_

The skin below his eyes itch. He strokes his cheekbones a few times until the sensation dies away, blinks a few times in the dawning of the sun over the lip of the horizon. The receding night gives way to burnt oranges and pinks over a land devoid of life. Signs of civilization cling to disrupted earth: a ramshackle village here, an uprooted forest there. How surprising would it be if this parcel of land had been summoned alongside another warrior? Both human and ecosystem pulled through tumultuous space until their memories were fractured in the chaos and then dumped into an unfamiliar world as a facsimile of their former glory.

Could this be his world? How would he even know?

Long fingers trail through fine strands of his hair. “Don’t think about it too much, young one,” Palutena says, her hand slipping down to rest on his shoulder.

“You’re only two days older than I am,” he protests, though he leans into the touch. Another curious thing about losing his memory: he’s always finding out new things about himself. A very tactile kind of person he is.

A phantom’s fingers glide along his cheekbones. _Don’t forget, Robin._

The angel’s chuckle shatters his illusion. “Yet you remind me… of…” The woman leaves her sentence hanging, and that’s fine. Minds full of holes, trains of thought abruptly derailed, incomplete memories. They’ve all experienced the same.

Palutena floats off, possibly attempting to re-catch that drift before it slips away into the void, and is promptly replaced by Link. “Breakfast,” he grins. “Straight from Lady Rosalina.”

Among today’s pickup is a cake shaped into a ring, a paper carton full of liquid fruit, and golden strips of breaded meat. They restore small amounts of stamina, appear every morning and evening upon the ground, and are usually collected by the morning watch for the rest of the team. Robin tentatively bites into a circular flatbread smeared with sweet syrup and animal fats and decides that yes, this is good.

“Do you truly believe this to come from the arms of your goddess?”

“This again? Robin. There’s only so many ways we can talk about this before we run out of things to say.”

“Then let us address the underlying topic at hand,” he says, ignoring Link’s retaliatory groan. “A goddess rallies warriors to defeat her archenemy with very little explanation aside from the vague promise that defeating him will grant her the ability to send us home. Have you absolutely no qualms regarding this?”

“She’s not like that.” Link repositions himself until he’s facing Robin directly. “Look, I know it’s hard to trust anyone when the most you can remember about anything amounts to the name of your country but not what its princess actually looks like. Believe me, I’ve been there. It’s a sticky situation that we’re all in right now and there aren’t a whole lot of ways out. What Rosalina has to offer is the most obvious solution.”

“The simplest path,” he corrects. “The path of least resistance for a soldier who follows his sword.”

Link shrugs. “The Master Sword agrees with you, but that’s an argument for another time. You sure you’ve fought a war before? I’m getting the feeling that you don’t like bloodshed.”

“I try to keep it to a minimum.” That’s a tactician’s job, no? “I think.”

“Keeping the loss of life low in one’s own unit is an entirely different puzzle, Sir Robin,” says Marth. The prince enters their presence with his hand resting atop the pommel of his ancient sword. “Link’s inquiry pertains to your direct involvement in enemy fatalities, a puzzle that is best answered with another question: why do we fight? Because we hate that which is before us, or because we love what is behind us?”

_Robin! Behind you!_

A rectangular barrier materializes at his back. Seconds later, several arrows of dark light fizzle against its burnt orange surface. Marth and Link are already rushing to the forefront, swords at the ready, as Palutena’s energy shield dissipates. Robin scrambles up, his bulky tome slipping from his arms until he readjusts his grip. Written in a language he can no longer read, he keeps the ancient book because it emanates an energy that transcends the physical boundaries of this universe. He can’t say he understands what happens to him when the tome floats free of his hands, as he inhales the faint scent of dusty pages and burning paper and charred flesh, the coppery tang of blood and the distinct tingling of ozone. Smoke curls off the fingers of his outstretched hand as he seeks for warmth and life, the nearest source of vibrant energy.

Contact.

* * *

_“Revenge is such a petty matter to one who transcends space and time itself. I can certainly lend you great power, but what could an evanescent human ever hope to offer an eternal being in return?”_

_“Take a deep look into the millennia and tell me what you see. Humans are just as multidimensional as you are—and even more. You are content to let destiny flow its course, yet with every second we have, humans have always sought to challenge their fates. In doing so, we bend time and space to our will.”_

_The air crackled with his power, yet the human before him stood fearlessly. It was akin to an ant defying the foot that threatened to crush it. It was silly, inconsequential—but ever so intriguing, such that its bravado gave the dragon pause._

_“Give me the ability to create my own world. I’ll bring the best of humankind together under the same sky, and in return, I’ll give you the human soul.”_

* * *

Pit had wagered that the enemy would never spot his arrows of darkness in dawn’s dim light.

Pit owes her half of his next meal.

Knowing Pit, this will probably be enough to fill her stomach for the next two days.

Lucina can crow over her tactical superiority later. She and Ike launch a two-pronged assault, a vociferous distraction, and are met in turn by two swordsmen, each swift and fleet footed. She lets pure instinct take over, lets her feet guide her away from the great slash of the green one’s blade. She senses more than hears Ike’s presence behind her and slides away to engage the blue one while Ike barrels into the green one with a charged swing.

She can’t help a disgruntled grunt from slipping past her lips as her opponent parries, strikes, parries every one of her strikes in perfect synchronization. He knows her moves before she has even carried them out. He, like Ike, has naturally blue hair. His technique mirrors hers with absolute precision. Is he another forgotten memory, another star blotted out from her blank slate? What reason does she have to fight him? Is her fate so pitiful that she serves no other purpose than to serve as a mindless combatant for King Bowser?

A horrifyingly familiar energy raises the hairs on the back of her neck. Throat is dry; her cry of warning emerges from her lips as nothing more a wordless scream. She takes a blow to her hip before she leaps upwards, twists and bounces again; anything to evade the erratic ball of electricity that surges through the space she had once occupied. The concussive force it generates is enough to knock her opponent flat on his back, to push her away from the damage zone—until a hookshot wraps around her ankle. For a second, she meets the eyes of the teenager her age, the one with the pointed ears and the high cheekbones. For a second, she is furious. Agent of Rosalina, agent of Bowser; who are they to decide her fate?

The hookshot snaps her right back down into the electrical torrent.

…

Her hands won’t obey her. Bolts of pain shoot down her arms any time she even thinks about moving them. It’s all she can do to roll onto her side, ignore the spittle that dribbles out the side of her mouth, and watch as Ike drives the two swordsmen away. Pit takes occasional potshots but is mostly occupied evading explosions of light from the green-haired woman.

“Lucina!”

She can do nothing as she is manhandled into somebody’s lap. The cloaked mage? What is he doing? His face is shadowed within the hood of his shroud, but the touch of his fingers across her cheek are hauntingly familiar to her subconscious even as her mind is repulsed by his tender gestures. Though her facial muscles refuse to form expressions, he must read the disgust in her eyes; his arms lower her slowly, shakily, and his voice trembles.

“I’m so sorry, Lucina. I… I didn’t. Luce, please, I’m sorry…”

The colors of his eyes are barely visible, a quivering maroon that crystallizes into a furious red as… as something else takes over. Hands that had seconds ago been gentle tighten around her body, clawed grips that prompt a crackling groan of pain from uncooperative lungs.

A barrage of senbon needles strike pressure points at the mage’s right shoulder. Immediately his dominant arm flops uselessly, dropping Lucina’s head. She barely has the strength to flex her neck and roll away before Sheik flickers into existence above and drops before the mage on all fours. The ninja launches straight into two crescent kicks, further driving a wedge between her and the mage.

Naga above, has she ever been so useless? It’s been a scant few weeks that she has spent here, but always as swordswoman to be contended with, not a limp doll thrown to the wayside. Through sheer force of mind, she powers her body into a sitting position. The Falchion has constantly reinvigorated her in previous times of weariness and exhaustion; where is it now? She casts her eyes about the plain—the black earth scorched by the mage’s charged Arcthunder, dilapidated ruins in the distance, and her sword, her link to the past, not a few feet away. The moment her fingers brush against its pommel, energy floods into her system. She scrambles towards her weapon, eager to rejoin the brawl.

A foot pins the Falchion against the lifeless earth. A sword stops a razor’s width from the side of her neck; its point quakes until the swordsman steels his resolve.

“Farore,” the man in green attire whispers. “Farore, give me courage.”

...

“ _Lucina!_ ”

Sheik does not turn to look for his teammate. The compassionate princess of Hyrule would have turned her back on her opponent in an instant to seek help for the swordswoman; as this male persona, Sheik does not hesitate to push his advantage. While the mage is distracted, he darts forward and sinks his knives through the folds of the mage’s cloak and into his warm chest.

A tome floats into sight, its pages flipping of their own accord. Sheik uses an explosive smoke bomb to conceal his teleport just behind the mage, dodging the crackling tendrils of darkness that explode around the earth he’d occupied not three seconds ago. It takes him a second to readjust to the sudden reorientation, but he doesn’t need directional awareness to wrap a bladed chain around the mage’s neck. His opponent freezes instantly and the flying tome abruptly thumps to the ground. Only when his threat is neutralizes does Sheik call, “Stop!”

So the dark mage wasn’t faking distress; Ike and Pit let the green-clothed warrior slip through their defense and now he’s come back to bite them in the ass by taking out their weakest link. Why Sheik’s opponent would be so interested in said liability, though…

“Link,” the mage rasps. His Adam’s apple bobs against the chain. “Link, let her go.”

“The path of least resistance, Robin,” Link says softly. His sword edge drifts closer to Lucina’s throat but halts when Sheik simultaneously tightens his chain.

Sheik pulls the chain tight against the mage’s throat, forcing Robin to back up until he’s flush against Sheik’s chest. “Trade.”

Link’s eyes flicker from Robin’s to Sheik’s. Something resonates deep within them, something akin to the courage to do what Zelda cannot.

A guttural cry erupts from Robin’s throat when Link drives his sword through muscle and flesh and into the earth. He dives forward as if he’s forgotten about the razor chain wrapped around his neck, or maybe he simply doesn’t care—his momentum is jerked to a halt by his lethal leash; shocked by Robin’s utter disregard for his life, Sheik releases the chain much too late and Robin topples to the side, his hood sliding back to reveal a shock of white hair and eyes the color of the life that leaps from his slashed throat onto the tome he scrabbles at with wet fingers. He’s unable to speak, but the crackle of energy within his blazing eyes is enough: _get away from her._

The green-haired angel plummets from above, a reflective barrier smashing into the ground before Link seconds before a miniature sun coalesces within the concave of Robin’s scrunched torso and explodes outward in a beam of pure energy that vaporizes the space directly above Lucina. The angel’s barrier gives Link an extra second to pull his blade free of Lucina’s shoulder, but soon enough both the shield and the elfin warrior are enveloped in light.

Sheik sprints past the gurgling mage. He’d meant to save this reveal for a battle-opportune moment, but Lucina’s health takes current priority. Transformational magic clings on his limbs as he dispels it, loosening his braid into tresses of brunette hair, unbinding his chest and draping legs with free-flowing cloth. Within seconds, Zelda shifts out of her Sheik persona and steps into her original identity, the crown princess of Hyrule who, for reasons unbeknownst to her, can wield weapons, offensive magic, and healing incantations with equal ease.

The flow of white magic between her fingertips is interrupted by a dark flurry of feathers and cloth that tackles her to the right. As she and Pit go down, a fireball arcs overhead and instantly consumes a tree upon impact.

“Watch it, Sheik!” yells the dark angel. He returns defensive fire, prematurely detonating Robin’s subsiding flow of projectiles with his arrows. “You don’t get to slack off just because you’re suddenly somebody else!”

Robin coughs and waters the drying earth with a splash of crimson. His face contorts in agony. Wrinkles crease the flesh of his forehead and cheekbones and brim with blood red, giving him the likeness of possessing additional apertures—two extra pairs of scorching bloodshot eyes that judge her for the worth of her soul until they are covered by Robin’s scrabbling fingers. Even then, Zelda’s keen eyesight picks up on the mark tattooed onto the back of Robin’s right hand.

Heat builds up in her lower gut as she conjures fire before her fingertips. The mage is spiraling into insanity, it’s easy to see: attacking his own teammates, clawing at his own face. She could easily transfer the explosion in her hands into his chest. Take him out of the running. That’s what the green-clothed warrior had meant, hadn’t he? The easiest path. An eye for an eye, a hand for a body, an injury for a life. Could it really be so simple?

Pit’s flurry of arrows have ceased. Immortal angel he could very well be, but his brash mannerisms betray his age as a cheeky young teenager. And she? Compassionate nobility or hardened warrior? How does she define herself when all has been stripped away?

The fire in her hands falters each second she hesitates until, in a flash of gold and red, Ike takes a good chunk out of Robin’s side with a two-handed swing from Ragnell. The action does not break his stride; he closes the distance in a few footfalls and slings Lucina over a shoulder. A raised eyebrow is all the recognition he gives Zelda before he barks, “We’re leaving.”

The mage is close enough that she can still sense the slow trickle of life force within him. She could heal him. White magic will do nothing for blood loss, but she could try to save him, just like he tried to save Lucina (in his own convoluted way). But one look at the crimson drenching his dark robes and she can’t bring herself to return to her mistake. Her murder.

She leaves the white-haired mage to his final breath.

**Author's Note:**

> A darker, gritter take on the Smash Universe. While I'm leaving it as a neat little one-shot for now, it has the potential to expand into a fairly complex multichapter story. Depends on readers' interest and my academic schedule (I graduate this year - Happy 2016!)


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